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As it was in the beginning, ... is now, and ever shall be, world without end.

Jean Rhys

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Jean Rhys
Age: 88 †
Born: 1890
Born: August 24
Died: 1979
Died: May 14
Novelist
Writer
Ella Gwendolen Rees Williams
Ella Rees Williams
World
Beginning
Shall
Ends
Ever
Without

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All of a writer that matters is in the book or books. It is idiotic to be curious about the person.
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I hadn't bargained for this. I didn't think it would be like this - shabby clothes, worn-out shoes, circles under your eyes, your hair getting straight and lanky, the way people look at you. ... I didn't think it would be like this
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Of course she had some pathetic illusions about herself or she would not be able to go on living.
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I didn't know, I didn't know, I didn't know.
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Even the one moment that you thought was your eternity fades out and is forgotten and dies.
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Cold - cold as truth, cold as life. No, nothing can be as cold as life.
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What you take to be hyprocrisy is sometimes a certain caution, sometimes genuine, though ponderous, childish, sometimes a mixture of both.
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I watched her die many times. In my way, not in hers. In sunlight, in shadow, by moonlight, by candlelight. In the long afternoons when the house was empty. Only the sun was there to keep us company. We shut him out. And why not? Very soon she was as eager for what's called loving as I was - more lost and drowned afterwards.
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before I could read, almost a baby, I imagined that God, this strange thing or person I heard about, was a book.
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It's so easy to make a person who hasn't got anything seem wrong.
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You can pretend for a long time, but one day it all falls away and you are alone. We are alone in the most beautiful place in the world.
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But they never last, the golden days. And it can be sad, the sun in the afternoon, can't it? Yes, it can be sad, the afternoon sun, sad and frightening.
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She had left me thirsty and all my life would be thirst and longing for what I had lost before I found it.
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When he talked his eyes went away from mine and then he forced himself to look straight at me and he began to explain and I knew that he felt very strange with me and that he hated me, and it was funny sitting there and talking like that, knowing he hated me.
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I like shape very much. A novel has to have shape, and life doesn't have any.
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She could give herself up to the written word as naturally as a good dancer to music or a fine swimmer to water. The only difficulty was that after finishing the last sentence she was left with a feeling at once hollow and uncomfortably full. Exactly like indigestion.
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She haunted him, as an ungenerous action haunts one.
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After all this, what happened? What happened was that, as soon as I had the slightest chance of a place to hide in, I crept into it and hid. Well, sometimes it's a fine day isn't it? Sometimes the skies are blue. Sometimes the air is light, easy to breathe. And there is always tomorrow.
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Life if curious when reduced to its essentials
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Age seldom arrives smoothly or quickly. It's more often a succession of jerks.
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